


First Encounters of the Demon Kind

by cherryflavouredvoid



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean is a Good Brother, Demonic Possession, Family Feels, Hunt Gone Wrong, John Winchester Tries (Not Enough), Memory Alteration, Minor Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:27:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27212671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryflavouredvoid/pseuds/cherryflavouredvoid
Summary: Dean Winchester could take on the world.He's sixteen, he can cook a box of pasta and not much else, he's failing trigonometry and biology, but the one thing he refuses fail? His family.Dean Winchester is a good son- loyal to a father that has eyes only for his enemies- a good brother, for Sammy he would burn a thousand corpses to keep safe, and a good person. He cares, maybe too much.(He would never show it).He just wanted to make his father proud. For once.He didn't think things could go so wrong.-John leaves the boys alone on a hunting trip in Fairplay, Colorado, and disappears. But instead of calling Bobby, Dean decides to retrace his father's steps and help him himself, the Winchester Way. Except... something finds Dean first.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & John Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. Dad's on a Hunting Trip (Again)

“C’mon, Sammy, don’t you wanna play with your big brother?” He smiled, wrong, all wrong-- his teeth were gnashing in his mouth and his eyes crinkled with malice and not the usual humor they possessed. 

“You’re not my brother.” Sam wrapped his hands around the shotgun, backing away slowly until his shoulders hit against the cabin wall with a dull thud. There was nowhere else to go. He felt his knees buckle with fear, but he wouldn’t let himself fall. He gripped the gun a little tighter.

“Of course I am! Same face,” not-Dean trailed his fingers across his jaw, “same voice,” he drawled, his tongue darting across his lips, “same scars. I’m all here, Sammy.”

“If you were him, you wouldn’t be trying to stab me with that,” Sam’s eyes darted to the machete fisted into not-Dean’s hand, sharpened and pointed directly at him.

“What can I say? Maybe I got tired of looking at your stupid, childish face. Maybe I’m over dad treating you like some little angel while I get nothing but the boot. Dad isn’t here right now, though, so why not be a good brother and put the gun…” He trailed off with a grunt, doubling over and dropping the blade as he threw his arms around his head.

Sam stood in silence, confused by the scene before him and torn between his urge to run and go check on his brother and the instinct to blast away whatever supernatural creature was impersonating Dean in front of his own two eyes. Overwhelmed, he merely aimed and edged his way towards the door. He needed to call Dad.

“Sammy!” Not-Dean shouted in a very concerned and Dean like manner, his real voice so jarring Sam froze with his feet half way out. “Run! I can’t hold him off forever.”

“What- who’s he? What’s happening?” Young Sam whirled on the hunched figure, desperate for an answer.

“Just go! Find Dad.”

“But Dean-”

“Go!” And in an instant, his eyes were black. So Sam ran.

Howling echoed from the cabin long after he slammed the door shut and sprinted into the woods. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes from confusion and hurt, but he did what Dean asked and kept running. 

-

Dean was sixteen. He wasn’t a child, and he’d already helped his father on so many cases: from the standard salt ‘n burns to witches to skinwalkers, Dean had handled himself well on every hunt. He could do what John asked efficiently, effectively, and he lived for the rush of adrenaline he got when another big bad went up in flames or down with bullets. From the moment he had heard about the newest case, he begged John to let him assist.

“Dad, please, whatever this is, it’s taking kids. Probably killing them! You gotta give me a chance to take this monster out.” He waggled his eyebrows, eyes wide and expectant, facing a father who stayed stoic and irritated.

“For the last time, I said no, Dean! I don’t want you to,” he flinched, held his tongue, “I  _ need _ you to stay here and protect Sammy. Now, you know the drill. If I’m not back in three days…”

“Call Bobby. But Dad, look, Sam can take care of himself, can’t you?” Dean looked at his brother for confirmation of that fact. The younger boy nodded vigorously. 

“Yep. Dean taught me a few new tricks with the double-barrell, too, so I can even-”   
“That’s enough, both of you!” John all but roared. Dean cast his eyes down, ashamed, but Sam merely bit his lip to keep from frowning. “I gave you an order, son, can you just shut up and trust me?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean choked out. He couldn’t meet his father’s gaze.

“Good. There’s food in the fridge, weapons in the closet, stay here and stay safe.” He made for the door, his hand pausing before he could pass entirely through, his body language indicating he had something more he wanted to say. But the moment of hesitation ended, and he stepped through the threshold and stomped off to the Impala. Dean didn’t move until he heard the engine roar and the wheels screech off down the road.

“Love you, too.” He thought miserably. He moved to sit on the bed next to Sam, who stared balefully in the direction John had just torn out of.

“Why do you let him walk all over you like that, Dean? You’re not a baby, you’re awesome, he should’ve let you gone.” Sam pushed his big brother with his shoulder, trying to lighten his spirits. Dean sighed, shoving his brother right back.

“He’s just stressed and I pushed him too far. That’s no one’s fault but mine. And you’re pretty awesome too, Sammy. You’ll be shooting almost as good as me in no time.”

“It’s Sam,” he started, but Dean snorted at his correction, “and ‘almost as good’ isn’t even close to describing my skills. Give me a week and I’ll outshoot you every time!”

“A week? When will you find the time between writing that essay and learning pre-calc?” Dean guffawed, snatching then teasingly going through Sam’s backpack, glancing over assignments with a quizzical gaze. 

“Hey! If anyone should be worried about school, it’s you. I can write and shoot at the same time if need be, but you won’t even try to do the former.”   
“Yeah, well, when Dad says he needs help on a hunt, saving lives just seems a tad more important than saving my grades.”   
“Whatever helps you sleep at night with all those C’s, Dean.” Sam rolled his eyes, shoving his papers back into his bag.

“I’m just as smart as you, geek boy, I just don’t really care about how I get my high school diploma so long as I get it.”

“Sure, sure, but don’t come crying to me when I’m at college and you suddenly need help understanding differential equations.”

If Sam saw Dean stiffen at the mention of college, he didn’t question it. Dean wanted Sam to go to college, for him to be happy, but secretly- selfishly- he wanted those things for himself, too. And he knew it was unlikely he’d ever get the chance to have the kind of future he was going to fight for Sam to have…

“Earth to Dean? I asked if you were okay with mac and cheese for dinner? We don’t have a lot of options here.” 

Dean shook his head free from the weight of his thoughts, stood up slowly and walked to the stove. He grabbed the box of pasta straight out of Sam’s hands.

“No, I got it. You could burn water, Sammy, I’ll take care of cooking.”

“Fine. At least there’s one thing you can do that I can’t, I was beginning to feel faint carrying all the talent in this family.” Sam flopped back onto the bed, reaching for a book next to his head.

“Careful, I’ll tell dad you said that.” Dean joked, pouring water into a pot. He fumbled with the light on the stove, because of course John Winchester couldn’t be bothered to find a cabin with fully functioning appliances. 

“Go ahead and tell him, what’s he gonna do? Leave us? Oh, wait, he already did that.”

“Dad tries his best, Sammy, you know he does,” Dean told his brother softly, one eye on the water, the other on the disgruntled boy to his right.

“His best is dragging us around the country, raising us like soldiers and giving us the most unstable life in the history of unstable lives. His best is a normal person’s reason to call CPS,” Sam didn’t keep any of the bitterness out of his voice, and Dean failed to come up with a response. “And it’s Sam, not Sammy.”

Minutes passed. Cheese was added to cooked pasta, poured into plastic bowls, stirred with old forks. It wasn’t until after they’d finished, still hungry, that Dean spoke again.

“I’m sorry, Sam.” He muttered despondently. Sam put down his copy of  _ Lord of the Flies. _

“For what?” He furrowed his brow, giving his brother a sideways glance. Dean didn’t get sentimental.

“For all of it. That we could never afford Christmas, never stay in one town, never one school. I’m sorry Dad doesn’t, can’t, be the Dad you need. I’m sorry you’re stuck with me instead of mom. I’m sorry,” Dean choked on his last apology. He wasn’t going to cry, he would never do that in front of Sammy, but this time it was harder to stop the swell of emotions he was experiencing. Too many insults to injury, too many bottles overflowing with the denial of his feelings- one more shake and he knew he might explode. Sam was flabbergasted by his brother’s display of remorse, so uncharacteristic for the headstrong teen, and he mentally rescinded every negative thing he’d said about their family. At least, all he said that day.

“I don’t need it, any of it. You’re my brother, Dean, the one who always has my back no matter the place, no matter the time. I’m okay. We’re okay.” He stared at his brother with profound sincerity, giving him a small smile. Dean coughed, flashed him a lopsided grin and did his best to cork the rest of his grievances for his brother’s benefit.

“Yeah, I am the best brother, aren’t I?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth, Dean-”  _ Smack! _ A pillow struck Sam right in the face, silencing him.

“It was totally implied.” Dean beamed, proud of his shot, until another pillow came sailing right back to him and smacked him across the nose.

“You suck and I’m taking it all back!”

“No take backs, Sammy!” 

They laughed, they fought, they did dishes and went to sleep. It was going to be a long three days. 


	2. Dean, Alone

“It’s been three days-”

“I know how long it’s been, Sammy.”

“You told Dad you’d call Bobby-”

“I know what I told Dad, Sam.”

“Then why are you lacing your boots and not dialing his number?”

Dean sat back with a sigh, eyeing his brother warily because he knew how he’d react to his plan.

“I don’t want to bother him. I know I can do this. And if he’d just let me go with him in the first place, I wouldn’t have to be the one to find him now,” Dean spoke calmly, afraid of spooking his brother into calling Bobby himself, but to his surprise the younger Winchester merely nodded his head. He went to the closet and brought out the weapons bag himself, throwing it down on the bed and unzipping it with a flourish. Their eyes met, and Sam let only determination and understanding reflect in his pupils. Dean needed this.

“I trust you, Dean. You better come back here in all one piece, though, because Dad will kill us both if something happens.”

“Yeah, like he’d ever lay a hand on you,” Dean snorted, but a fair amount of bite laced his words under his exasperated tone. This didn’t go unnoticed by Sam, however, it did go without a response. Sam worried his lip as his brother rummaged through the duffel, tucking a pistol into his pants and a machete into his beat up backpack. He threw in two water bottles, a flashlight and a wad of cash their father had left “for emergencies only.” As an afterthought, he strode into the kitchen and shoved the salt shaker into his left pocket, a lighter in his right. He shrugged at Sam’s raised eyebrow.

“You can never be too careful. I’m not going to lie, I still don’t really know what Dad is even hunting here.” His confidence waned at his admittance of ignorance, but neither brother expressed their doubts. Dean was sixteen, he was old enough to help his dad. He was old enough to be back-up, and he believed he was now old enough to be his equal, his partner, on the hunt. This was his chance to prove himself, and he was going to reap the fruits of that labor.

“Okay Sammy, if I’m not back in three days-”

“Call Bobby?” Sam guessed, half joking and half concerned out of his mind at the thought of Dean going out on his own.

“Call Bobby,” Dean confirmed. He hesitated, clapping a hand against Sam’s shoulder before he made for the door. He looked as if he wanted to say something important, but he held back and said “don’t go naming the dust bunnies while I’m gone.”

The door shut with sinister finality, and Sam moved away from the window so he couldn’t watch Dean waltz off into danger.

“Yeah, love you too,” he thought to himself. He wondered how many more bowls of mac and cheese he could stomach before he hated his favorite food.

-

His feet ached by the time he got into town- half hitching, half hiking through twisted roads and mountainous paths- and he was disgruntled by his 2 hour journey when his Dad could be in serious trouble. Dean stared up at the decrepit sign that gloriously proclaimed “Welcome to Fairplay, Colorado,” with its paint peeling and colors muted from years of weathering. He didn’t like the way the skiers plastered onto the sign were looking at him, empty smiles and covered eyes, so he cast his gaze straight down the street. Dean patted his sidepiece, making sure it was secure, and tightened the straps of his bag like a kindergarten student would on the first day of school before pressing onwards. His first stop, as it was the Winchester way, was the closest diner.

The diner served two purposes for every hunter, first: fuel. Traveling was a tedious venture, and leaving a hunt to trek 6 states over for the next battle would aggravate anyone’s stomach. And, when going into the unknown where food may be hard to find, having a good last meal never goes unappreciated. Secondly, and more relevant to the Winchesters, is that the diner serves as the hub for local news and gossip. If Dean wanted to get a better sense of what his Dad had been hunting, where he might have gone next, the diner might be his best clue.

He passed by many stores, but almost no people. Every door was locked, every light turned off, and every curtain drawn tight. While the occasional widow or smoking adult looked him up and down, he didn’t see any children. He gulped. The town of Fairplay had six missing kids from the last week alone, so he wasn’t surprised by the fact that parents would either be keeping their kids out of the way or out of the neighborhood entirely. But he was taken aback by the stares he kept receiving, as if his presence was more rare than the president’s. He’d been deeply unnerved by whatever remained of the locals and was almost ready to call it quits and check on Sammy when finally he stumbled upon the very thing he sought: a diner.

“Fairplay Pies” flashed brightly in neon lights above his head, contradicting the dreary image set by the rest of the town. The building was nothing special, old and wooden and homely, and Dean had no qualms about stepping through the door and away from the chilled air. Besides, pie was  _ always _ a good thing.

A little silver bell rang with a dismal clink as he made his entrance. He took in the restaurant with quick eyes, like his Dad always trained him to.  _ Know your surroundings _ , he’d hammered into Dean’s head. If he was going to ignore a direct order from his father, he might as well remember everything else he told him. Booths of red, classic 50’s style with checkered black-and-white table clothes and wall trim. Vinyl discs lined the wall, polaroids of random people posed next to milkshakes spread out across the whole of the place. It was cute, cliche, and entirely devoid of people save for one lone gentleman in the corner booth, slurping a coca cola and staring out of the window with unfocused eyes. Dean frowned at his rumpled appearance, sunken expression, and dirty clothes. He’d been through something terrible. He made a move to speak with the man when a peppy voice broke into his train of thought.

“Hiya and welcome to Fairplay Pies, how can I help you?” Dean whirled to his right, where the long soda counter stretched out, and caught sight of a blonde woman sporting a white uniform. She was young, early twenties he gathered, and her hair was short and curled underneath her little white hat. He approached the counter with a winning smile, plans of interrogation chased from his mind by a hot girl.

“Hey there,” he squinted at her name tag, “Betty.” He saw his reflection in a mirror to the waitress’s left and inwardly groaned at how disheveled he looked, hoping his charm would distract from his windblown hair.

“Hey yourself,” she answered him warmly, sliding a menu across the surface to him, “anything I can get for you?”

Dean was prepared to deny food in favor of asking about his Dad, but a loud growl from his stomach had him glancing over the menu with fervor.

“Yes, please, I’ll take a double bacon cheeseburger, emphasis on bacon, and I’ll follow that up with a slice of your meanest apple pie.” Betty’s smile faltered.

“That’s so funny, a gentleman came in earlier this week and ordered the same exact thing. But I’m afraid I’ll have to tell you what I told him: we won’t have any pie for the rest of the month, not until our baker comes back into town.”

Dean was startled at all the information given to him, appreciative however that he wasn’t the one to broach the topic of his father.

“Oh really? What was this other guy like, certainly not as handsome as me?” Dean joked, hoping to glean what little she might know. Betty pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. She absentmindedly twirled a yellow-painted nail through some of her ghost white curls.

“He was decent, came in here on Tuesday and ordered. Looked like he had a devil beating down his back, though. Said he was with the FBI investigating,” her voice got low, and she shot a worried glance at the corner booth man, “the disappearances of all those kids. Oh, it’s just awful. Those poor children and their poor families…” She trailed off as her eyes got all wispy, tears threatening to form and spill over. Dean was okay with women, but he was absolutely terrible with  _ crying _ women-- he moved to distract his waitress.

“Hey, that’s okay, so, um, where’d your baker go?” Dean stuttered out, afraid of upsetting her more.

“Oh, Sal? His nephew was the first taken, so he took his family out of town as soon as possible. He said he’s not coming back until we know who did this and where those kids are. Can you blame him? But I am so sorry about the pie!” She sniffed but seemed to be holding herself together. She gave Dean a quick, all too motherly pat on his clasped hands.

“I’ll go fix up that burger for you.” Betty disappeared into the kitchen without another word. Dean scratched the side of his head, off put by her weepiness and concern for his Dad. Though she hadn’t said much, a man claiming to be from the FBI with ‘a devil beating down his back’ seemed extremely synonymous with John Winchester. He’d been there a mere two days ago, and he knew he had to be close. Something bizarre was happening in Fairplay, Colorado, and Dean knew his father might have gotten just a little too close, too quick. Dean sighed, rapping the counter with his knuckles twice before hopping off the red cushioned stool. He saw the hollow man out of the corner of his eye, and he reckoned by Betty’s reaction that he probably knew something. He prayed that whoever he was, he would be aware enough to answer his questions.

He walked slowly over to the table so as not to startle him, and he stood and waited for the man to acknowledge his presence. When a minute had gone by and the stranger had not managed to tear his gaze away from the window nor respond to Dean’s repetitive throat clearing, the Winchester boy finally spoke up.

“Excuse me, sir,” he started, trying to be cordial, “may I steal a minute of your time?” 

The man sluggishly drew his attention away from the window, his bloodshot eyes scanning Dean from his muddy boots to his polite expression. His face stayed neutral, but he managed to scrounge up enough energy to speak.

“What do y’want?” He asked, his voice ragged. His breath smelled terrible, of cigarettes and old meat, and Dean had to fight the urge to flinch away when the cloud of toxic gas reached his nose. There was more than soda in the glass he drank from.

“Nothing much, I was just wondering if you’d seen a man--late thirties, dark scruff, probably wearing a suit fine enough for Sunday and definitely not from around here-- pass through this joint in the last few days,” he tried to keep the man’s attention before he slipped back into obliviousness entirely. The corner of his mouth twitched downwards, his eyebrows pinching together in a frown, and he gave Dean another dreary look.

“FBI guy. I saw him.” His answer was clipped, but his tone told Dean he knew something more.

“Did you talk to him?” Dean questioned, his fingers twitchy with impatience.

“What do you care, you his little partner or something?” The haggered man was waking up from his daydreams, rubbing his eyes fervently and sucking down his room temperature drink. He began to regard Dean with more suspicion.

“No, I just need to know. It’s important, please. Did he say something to you?”

“He asked about the missing kids, I told him what I could.” 

“Did he say anything about where he was heading?” Dean pried, sensing the stranger’s generosity waning with every second he stood there pestering him.

“Dunno, might’ve.” He slurped his soda, more air than liquid, dawdling on for several more seconds than what could be deemed necessary.

“What did you tell him about the missing kids, then?” Dean tried a different approach. The man’s fingers tightened around his glass. A shadow of sharpness glowered across his features, making him look haunted.

“That my son was one of ‘em.”

The unbearable atmosphere of the restaurant was made more tense and awkward by this piece of information. Dean fell silent for several seconds before making his next attempt.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Mister…”

“Silverson. My kid’s name is Benny.” He paused, took his time before finishing his thought and by then his voice was again somber and dull. “I told him not to go out that far into the woods, but what son listens to his father? Damn preteens.” He was drained, tired and dead in his corner booth. As guilty as Dean felt about pushing him for more news, he knew it had to be done.

“I hate to take any more of your time, but could you tell me what’s so far into the woods people should be avoiding?”

“The old mines. I reckon the first kid got lost in there, the rest following suit to find their friend. A shame, such a shame, and now my own son…” He trailed off, unable to hold the conversation any longer. Dean obliged his desire to check out of reality, letting out a “thank you” that fell on deaf ears. At least now he had an idea of where his father might have gone: the mines. He made for the door, intent on barrelling straight out of town and into the treeline, until Betty called out to him.

“Dean! What about your burger?” She had the most delicious plate of french fries and cardiac arrest in a bun just waiting for him to devour, but the new direction he’d been steered in invigorated him far too much to eat. He jogged back to the counter and fished out a twenty dollar bill from his bag, crumpled and cut from rubbing up against the machete. 

“Something’s come up, keep the change, won’t ya?” He winked before heading out. He was so wrapped up in the case he failed to notice that Betty had called him Dean, and he’d never given her his name.


	3. Into Darkness

Dean asked one of the smokers by the gas station- who was surprised by the request but forthcoming enough- for directions to the old mine. The sun was going down behind the mountains, and Dean thought he could very well get used to a view like that. Peaceful, constant. Powerful. As soon as the lulling idea crossed his mind, it was ruined by storm clouds rolling into the sky, casting an ominous gloom across the town and threatening rain upon the townsfolk. 

“Great,” Dean muttered when he felt the first drop strike his head, “just what I needed.”

The odds seemed stacked against him as he set out north, his feet more steady than his head, but he was just cocky enough to believe that everything would work out. Just cocky enough to be bitter, to believe that everything would have been fine three days ago had John let him come in the first place. His Dad was so slow to trust, but had he not been the perfect son? He was dependable, a fast learner, a good shot-- he’d done more to raise Sammy than anyone else. And more than anything, he’d never asked for something in return. He stopped asking for birthday gifts by 7, stopped asking for trips to Disney by 8, never demanded more food than what John gave them or more time with their busy, busy father. But he wanted this one thing, to help his dad, and John wouldn’t let him do it. He was frustrated, betrayed; sixteen and ready to take on the devil, as if the devil really existed. As he made his way through the darkening woods, he resolved that once his dad saw what he could do, how brave and strong and prepared he was, he would have no choice but to let him be his equal at last. No more staying behind with Sammy, no more doing research in the library while his father slayed the monster. They would do it together. Like a family.

It took the pouring rain smacking against every part of him to snap him out of his own head. He let out a breath, his teeth chattering in admittance that the air had grown cold and hostile. He pulled his leather jacket tighter around him, cursed himself for not having the foresight to bring something heavier, and further cursed his clothes for having absolutely zero waterproof qualities. By the time the sun had set in its entirety, Dean was soaked through and quaking like a drowned rat, though no less determined to find his father. The mine was at the bottom of a steep embankment, and he groaned about having to slide down the slick mud to get to its maw. More willing to risk pride than safety, he sat on the forest floor and let his jeans get plastered with earth as he scooted to the opening of the mine. His pistol dug into his back as he slid, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the mirror revealed a bruise in the morning. _As if I’ll make it back to the cabin by morning,_ he thought grimly.

Finally, he stood and in vain tried to swat some of the mud off his pants. Dean wondered why there weren’t any cops or rangers around the area, no signs warning people to keep out, no perimeter set or watches of people trying to find their lost children. The forest was more barren than the town itself, Dean mused, as he recalled he had not heard a single bird during his entire journey. The revelation twisted in his gut, and the uneasiness and the hunger started to give him pain so great he let out a grunt and grabbed his abdomen. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths to stave the negative feelings off, and while they weakened, they lingered inside of him and made him sweat despite the chill. The anxiety was hitting him, but he would not be deterred by fear because fear wasn’t the Winchester way. He’d been tossed about by ghosts and cursed by witches, he could walk into an abandoned mine.

He hovered at the entrance and pulled the flashlight out of his drenched backpack. He had to knock it across his palm- once, twice- before it flared to life and dimly illuminated the inside of the tunnels. Immediately, the mine forked into three different passageways. Shrugging, he idly eeny-meeny-miny-moe’d his choice and ended up diving into the one on the far right. He marked a notch on the support post with his machete, which he then shoved into his belt in favor of grabbing his pistol. Hand over hand, gun over flashlight, he made his way into the mine and, he couldn’t help but hope, towards his father. 

Within a few feet of the journey, the pitch darkness of what stretched ahead swallowed what dismal beam of light his batteries failed to strengthen.What it did illuminate was the amount of coal dust stirred up by shifting beams and rocks, which did nothing but make him cough. He was practically going in blind, and the lack of visibility stacked with his gnawing hunger and growing cold did not bode well for the rest of his journey. Despite the odds, he trudged through, going deeper and deeper into the shafts. With every fork in the path, he would use his machete to place another notch. The mines grew mustier as trapped moisture and unsettled chemicals mixed to make the air nauseous, and Dean adapted by pulling his shirt over his nose. Several times he found himself slipping on a puddle courtesy of overhead cave-ins allowing the storm to slither below the earth. A normal person would have been long since discouraged by the time Dean ventured a mile in, but they would have ignored the signs that served to reinforce his determination. A muddy shoe, a scrap of fabric, a handprint slapped against the packed in walls. Signs of a person, people, that led him to believe that whatever his father was hunting was certainly in these passages. Eventually, when he could no longer hear the pounding rain nor its cacophonic echo, he began to hear other things. Scratching, hissing, voices with no source, and sometimes (something he hoped was only his fear, something in his head) screaming.

He thought to himself, this is bad. But it could always be worse.

Worse came about an hour and a half in, when his flashlight began to flicker. Worse came when those screams he told himself were nothing but his subconscious sounded too real to be ignored, just up ahead, directly to his right. Worse was barreling down that stretch of mine, charging in with no plan and no sustainable light, and merely hoping it wouldn’t end poorly.

He would be wrong.

Dean catapulted not into an empty annex or a support beam, but someone of actual flesh and blood. The screaming intensified, hoarse and desperate, until Dean backpedaled and slammed his flashlight back into working order. The small chamber was lit just enough for both wanderers to see each other and quell their rising panic.

Dean was staring at some boy, around his age, though by his disheveled state could have been years younger or older off his estimate. He was covered in mud and coal and (to Dean’s shock) blood, all which concealed him from a positive identification. The hyperventilating kid slid to his knees upon realizing he was not a threat, instead throwing out a hand like a man reaching for water in the desert.

“Oh, thank God.” His voice was weak, and Dean had to strain to hear him. He pocketed his gun in order to grasp the boy’s hand and pull him back to a standing position. To say he had questions was an understatement, but he focused on choosing his words carefully.

“Why were you screaming?” He tried, thinking of the most pressing concern first. The kid’s eyes went wide, as if the panic was slamming back into him, and he shook worse than a leaf in a windstorm.

“I thought I was nearly o-out… then I hit a dead end. And I heard footsteps, and-- oh, God, it’s still hunting me, I’m going to die, we’re going to die!” The end of his sentence died out to nothing more than a whimper, and Dean felt a surge of pity.

“Hey, hey, listen to me, what’s your name?”

“B-Benny.” Dean cursed, for better or worse he knew who this was. The Silverson kid.

“Benny. I’m Dean; no one is dying here, I’m going to get you out. But I need to know: what’s hunting you?” He kept a hand on Benny for fear he might faint or bolt into God knows what kind of danger. Wild brown eyes locked onto his face, and the lost son collected himself enough to stutter out what he could.

“We were,” he swallowed, a lump that wouldn’t disappear, “we, my friends and I, we were…. We,” Dean tapped his fingers against his cheek to keep his focus, “were in the woods. My dad said don’t go far, e-especially with all those kids missing but Micheal said it would be okay, we’re old enough. He laughed.” Benny ran a dirty hand through his equally disgusting hair, almost letting out a hysterical chuckle. Dean waited, patient despite the nearly dead batteries and the overwhelming sense of urgency surrounding them.

“What happened next?” _Dad would stay calm, focused on the case, be like Dad, damnit!_ He repeated it like a mantra, keeping his heart rate even and his face neutral.

“We were walking past the mines- we didn’t want to go in! We were just walking but we heard a scream. A little girl. Seth was ready to bolt but I said we couldn’t leave her, she’s lost and hurting and we have to help her because that’s what you do, you help people-” Benny started to ramble, yanking his other hand away from Dean to tear at his hair. He banged the heel of his free palm against his forehead, grounding himself.

“So we went in. We called for her, whoever she was, but we must have gone too far because suddenly we couldn’t find our way back. W-we panicked but it was okay! We had each other, our families would look for us… Then…” He took a shuddering breath, his shaking growing so violent Dean feared he would explode. He looked terrified, and now impossibly unsure.

“Then we heard whistling. And this man came out of the dark, in a suit, and said he would help us. If we made a deal.”

“A deal?” Dean furrowed his brow; he had been expecting something with claws or fangs or scales, something monstrous. Not a rogue lawyer casually strolling an abandoned mineshaft.

“A deal. He said if,” Benny’s voice pitched with confusion, “if we signed away our souls, he’d give us a way out.”

“Your souls?” Dean wracked his brain. Whatever they were hunting was leagues beyond anything he’d ever faced.

“I don’t know man, the whole thing was so ridiculous we laughed in his face. We didn’t laugh for long.” Benny choked on a sob, though he was so dehydrated he had no tears left to give.

“Hey, I know it’s hard but I need to know what happened next.” Dean sounded calm, seasoned, despite being anything but at that moment. Benny nodded, biting his lip.

“We told him no, we would find our own way out. Cocky, stupid, I’m sure we threw out an insult or three. Idiots, all of us, idiots!” The flashlight flickered, casting them into darkness for three, four, five seconds before sputtering back to life. They didn’t have much time. Benny talked faster.

“He said we would regret that. The air got cold, started to smell disgusting- like rotting eggs- and when we turned to hurry away the lantern blinked out. He whistled. I turned back, but I only saw these red eyes staring back at me. Then nothing. Then I heard the screams. S-seth was getting torn apart, I felt his blood against my cheek,” he traced his face with trembling fingers, “then Micheal.” His voice dropped an octave.

“I was next, but I kept running, faster and faster, and I haven’t stopped. Oh, God, it’s never going to end…” To Dean’s surprise, Benny threw himself into the Winchester boy’s arms, clinging to his jacket with iron fists. “We have to keep moving or he’ll find us.” He didn’t pull away, instead he let Benny use the physical contact to calm himself down. He waited to speak until his sobs had quieted down to an intermittent stream of whimpering and not an all consuming choking sound.

“I swear I will get you out of here, I just have one more question. Have you seen anyone else down here? Maybe a bearded man, black jacket, wicked looking shotgun?” Benny shook his head, and Dean’s heart fell to the floor. But he had to save this boy, it’s what his father would have done and like hell he was going to leave this innocent kid to die because he pressed on out of instinct and nothing more.

“Okay, I believe you. Let’s move,” Dean spoke firmly, sensing that Benny was dazed enough from hysteria and exhaustion to need a push to get moving. His subconscious howled at him to venture deeper, but he buried the instinct and turned on his heel with Benny in tow. In just a few feet, they met the first fork in the road-- Dean automatically felt for the notch which directed their route and kept his wits about him. He pushed down rising annoyance at Benny’s cautious and almost unbearably slow movements, forcing himself to remember that his companion was exhausted, grieved, dehydrated and a slough of other reasons that earned him the right to be slow. 

A tentative left, right, right, straight, left again they progressed through without much trouble, aside from the dangers presented by the dying flashlight. If a mouse were so much as to squeak or a drop of rain splash onto the ground, Benny would grab Dean’s arm. His grip was strong despite his weakened state, which Dean couldn’t help but applaud even if the action quickly grew to become a nuisance. 

Dean thought they should keep quiet, maintain some element of stealth especially if they were being hunted. Benny, on the other hand, disagreed: he spoke constantly, albeit in a hushed manner.

“My dad is going to kill me. Kill me, straight up murder me, I could die down here- sure, maybe- but if we get out he’s going to kill me anyways. I bet he’d be okay if I died. He’s too tough. Never even hugs me, you know? Sometimes I think he hates me, cause he never trusts me. I think that’s what drove me out here in the first place… yeah, he wouldn’t miss me. Not much to miss…” Benny rambled, but finally Dean cut him off.

“You’re wrong.” He said flatly, reaching for the next support beam. No notch. He reached for the one on the right: notch. They advanced.

“Yeah, and how would you know?” Benny mumbled miserably.

“Because I met him.” Dean stepped around a pitfall, guiding the teenager to do the same.

“You met him? How is he?” Benny’s eyes were wide, greedy for information.

“He’s devastated, a shell. He loves you, Benny, don’t ever think for a second he doesn’t. If you don’t make it back to him he’ll fade into nothing, so let’s make sure that doesn’t happen and walk a little quicker, huh?” Dean picked up the pace for both of them, maintaining the speed even when the flashlight went dark for stretches spanning several seconds. 

“I almost can’t believe it,” Benny whispered. Dean risked a glance at his face, noting the guilt but also the joy. The guilt for causing his dad’s suffering, the joy that his absence had the power to cause that suffering in the first place. “But I trust you. Thanks, Dean.”

Benny fell mute after that, though Dean’s thoughts grew loud enough to fill the silence his companion had left.

_I trust you._

Benny had said the three little words he had been dying to hear from his own father. And he had spoken them so easily, believed in them, Dean had given him reason to have faith in that truth in a mere hour. John had been raising him for sixteen years, had trained him for eleven, if anyone should trust Dean it should have been him. Concern eroded slightly into resentment. They pressed onwards.

Sometimes they would hear a laugh and stiffen, wary of what could be around the next bend. Other times they would have to stop for a few minutes while Benny hacked out his lungs, clogged with dust and strained from the exertion of constant flight. Dean would turn off the flashlight and keep a hand at his companion’s back, hovering just over his soot-stained jacket, wanting to help him but wanting even more to get out of the cursed mine. He felt his patience wearing thin as the time needed for Benny to catch his breath got longer and longer until Dean was seriously considering just carrying the scrawny boy the rest of the way out. He shifted the metal flashlight in his hand, trying to banish his selfishness. 

“Not much further,” he promised, though he had promised it three times already, “you’re doing great.”

Perhaps they would have made it out by first light, time enough for Dean to see Benny off to a hospital and be back to Sam by lunch, had it not been for the sound. Not a laugh, a distant scream, the echo of terror or torture, all things that could be chalked up to fear or insanity: no, this was a grunt. Humanistic, in pain, all too familiar, and far too distinct to be imagined. 

“Dad?” Dean coughed out instantly, his hand twitching for his blade. The noise had come from his far left, the wrong passage, and Benny tugged on his sleeve with all the consciousness of a cat around water.

“Dean, come on, it was just the mines shifting. Or something else, I don’t know and I don’t care but we have to get out of here.” Dean wanted to be led away and live to see the sun rise over the mountains, but his gut told him to go left. And even if John refused to trust that instinct of his, he was going to. In just a few seconds of what he wished to consider rational thought, he had a new plan.

“Benny,” he took the boy by his shoulders even though they were almost the same height, “I’m going to have to leave you. I need to know if my dad is really down here, and if he is, he needs my help.”

“No! You can’t, don’t do this.” Benny’s panic was immediate and immeasurable, but Dean was reaching into his back pocket and would not be stopped. He brought out the lighter and placed it into the teen’s hand. A small, plastic green lighter with his initials scratched into the surface. It was unimpressive, but reliable. He shut out the pleading and kept talking.

“You’re going to follow the tunnels, keep a hand on the wall, and every time you reach a split path you feel for the notch I cut, that’s going to lead you back home, okay? You use that lighter only when you have to, you walk fast but you walk carefully and you survive this. Are you hearing me?”

Benny was tearing up but he managed to nod, though his mouth kept opening and closing like a fish out of water. Dean sensed he was going to lose his nerve if he wasn’t given something more, and so he pulled out the machete and hesitated for only a second before offering it to him.

“This will keep you safe. You see something, you hear something, you swing first and ask questions later.” This seemed to help soothe some of Benny’s fears, now he at least had the illusion of defense, and Dean felt slightly better about abandoning him so close to the end. The flashlight, as if receiving cues from a higher power, chose that moment to finally wink out of existence. Benny fumbled with the lighter and illuminated both of their dirty faces for a few moments before Dean pinched the flame out. 

“Save the power,” he spoke into the dark. Benny nodded, realized he couldn’t be seen, and then verbalized his acknowledgement. Silence. Dean cleared his throat, realizing he had to get moving.

“It was nice to meet you,” he tried, knowing no goodbye he gave would be satisfactory. To his surprise, Benny awkwardly pulled him into a hug, almost stabbing him in the process, before moving down the most eastern passage. Dean hated having to send him off on his own, hated that he now had nothing but himself, his pistol and the darkness for company, but he refused to face the odds and started moving with alacrity towards the left passage. 

He forged blindly down the path, gun in hand, straining his ears for any more out of the ordinary, tall tale sounds of his father. His face would sooner hit a wall than another human being, and in fact, it did. He slammed full on into a dead end in his quest, and when his eyes finally opened again from the blackening pain he realized he could see the wall. Which would have been fine, except in total darkness with a dead flashlight that should not have been possible. He whipped around and ignored the ringing in his head, coming face to face with a man not six feet from where he stood. A man in a suit, holding a lantern, with a smile that could scare even clowns away. The man cocked his head, looked him up and down with his face unwavering and unhinged. He was impeccably clean amidst the coal and the mud, and his lantern kept swinging just slightly: with every little pass it creaked on its hinges and the sound soon began to make Dean’s skin crawl. He was frozen with fear, and as his heartbeat thundered in uncontrollable terror he knew why his father had kept him off this case. And he wished he had listened. 

“Hello there, boy,” the man drawled out-- his smile unwavering, eyes unblinking--“are you lost?”

Dean stayed silent, his mouth dry and his limbs deadweights on his body.

“I know you’re lost. But it’s going to be okay. I can help you.”  _ This is wrong, this is wrong, this is so wrong, move, move, move- do something!  _ Dean’s inner monologue was trying to kick his body into action, yet to no avail. He only managed to twitch, to shake in his boots. Distantly, he thought of Sammy. How devastated he would be when neither father nor brother returned. He would be the last Winchester.

“It’s been terrible, hasn’t it? It’s dreadful down here with all this,” he gestured with a gloved hand to the walls of the mine, “ _ this. _ Oh, but you’re so fortunate to have found me! It looks like you would have died down here, hm?” 

His words were stiff, so polished and unfeeling Dean knew them to be rehearsed, lines from a script meant for  _ what _ he didn’t quite comprehend.

“All you have to do to escape, pardon, to get out, is to make a deal with me. Would you like to make a deal?” Dean still couldn’t speak, so the man kept on his mask and his charade.

“I just ask for your soul. Then you’re free! In ten years I’ll collect on that little deal, but that’s ten years you wouldn’t have if you just died here. Won’t you say yes, young man?” He stuck out his hand, that damn smile still plastered on his pale face and contradicting every word he spoke. His request, his offer, was incomprehensible, but the movement of his arm was enough to jolt Dean from his wax figure like state.

“Like hell,” he said, whipping out his pistol and leveling it between the man’s eyes. “Here’s my deal to you: tell me where my father is and I’ll make your death as quick as possible, scout’s honor.” 

The man had the decency to briefly look shocked by Dean’s blatant refusal and counter-proposal of death, but he recovered quickly and took a moment to smooth down his tie. He even began to chuckle, closing his eyes with his chin tilted to the side. Dean kept his gun up, gritting his teeth.  _ Shoot him now! _ His brain screamed.  _ Not until he tells us where Dad is!  _ His heart argued.

The man’s momentary shock had now faded into a twisted, infinite pleasure.

“Oh, of course he has a son,” he purred, beyond delighted. “Change of plans, my king,” he said into the empty air, speaking with a confidence that made Dean believe they weren’t exactly alone, “this venture seems a little more worth our while.” Sparks danced from the lantern and up to his fingers, a flame growing to consume his whole hand. He was unbothered, which made Dean fear his power more, and before he could fire his pistol the man was snapping. In an instant, a burst of fire, a new figure was standing at his side. When the burst of light died out, Dean took in the not-so stranger with a gasp. Wispy blond hair, little yellow dress, a hat atop her head and a name tag Dean had seen not too many hours prior.

“Betty?” He sputtered out, his gun almost dropping from his target.

That morning, she had smiled wistfully at him, daylight dancing in her eyes, kindness showing through between her teeth.

Now, unfortunate now, her blue eyes were ice and her expression a sneer.

“You again? What a shame, I thought you were kind of cute.”

She lunged for Dean, revealing dual blades in her palms, but the gentleman extended a hand, stopping her dead in her tracks.

“Wait, please, I don’t want you to do  _ that.  _ I have another way we can use him. Your other talent, dear.”

She grinned, he simpered, in unison they blinked.

When they reopened, his eyes were a deep, swirling red-- her eyes pitch black and empty.

Dean shuttered.

“May I present: John Winchester’s Son. You know what to do.”

“My pleasure.”

Dean thought he saw Betty collapse onto the floor of the mine, thought she convulsed in wretched waves until charcoal smoke poured from her lips. That couldn’t be though, could it?  _ Dad, what are you hunting?  _ His last thought before that same smoke was choking its way down his throat, filling him up. Blackness. Nothingness. Then his eyes opened.

And he was a passenger in his own body, seeing into a world he could no longer interact with. The body of the waitress laid unmoving on the ground, and Dean could see her chest was still. A corpse.

“Hey boss, he has a brother,” he heard himself say. He wanted to bite his tongue, but his teeth would not obey. 

“Excellent! He will be so pleased to know we--”

A gunshot rang out, so loud the cavern trembled and rocks clattered from the roof to the puddles below. The man with the lantern doubled over hissing, his new wound steaming. The lantern crashed onto the ground and winked them into darkness, while one hand went to clutch his stomach and the other his bent knee. With a roar, he wheeled around to claw at the attacker and was met with a gunshot to the forehead. Twitching, seething, the man struggled to get up. A match was struck, not bright enough to reach the shadows where Dean and his jailor were hidden but enough to showcase the monster and the champion. John Winchester. If Dean could have commanded his own body, he surely would have wept.

“Your days of hurting innocent children are over, demon.”

_ Demon?  _ Dean balked inside his prison. How was that possible? But there was the man, bleeding from his simmering wounds, impossibly alive and pissed to hell.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

Not-Dean stepped out of the darkness, smiling cruelly. John raised his gun to shoot but froze as soon as he saw his son. A thousand and one words flickered across his face, and he couldn’t say any of them.

“See you later, Pops.”

Dean’s voice broke the stand-off. Then, he vanished out of existence.


End file.
